


Daylight [PHAN]

by apathemeral



Category: Amazingphil - Fandom, Danisnotonfire - Fandom, Phandom, dan and phil
Genre: Las Vegas, London, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-09-01 16:06:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8630512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apathemeral/pseuds/apathemeral
Summary: Wild minds trapped inside insecure bodies. Of course their introduction had been at a masquerade.





	

We connected through dim nights and coincidences. Myself and him, dwelling within the arid north of Vegas. Both despising of the rain, but loving of the cool breeze that followed a scorching day. Eased by the simple scene - the golden sepia of the rippled sand and the expanse of the overhead mountains; the rich and unclouded azure of the sky; the washed out, textured shamrock of the succulent cacti strewn out in miscellaneous patches; and the scattering of white-roofed buildings - however, ignited within by the neon lights of clubs both flimsy and classy as soon as the sun retreated.

Wild minds trapped inside insecure bodies. Of course our introduction had been at a masquerade. The White Rock club, where reminiscent Elvis tunes played and a glistening disco ball shone - projecting red, blue and green ambience that would transform the walls and add ever-changing colour to my clear vodka - and monochrome-dressed partygoers let loose behind their glittering masks.

Phil had stuck out like a sore thumb. Unlike the randoms swirls and juts that made up most people's disguises - not to resemble characters or even specific animals, but to look edgy and mysterious like abstract paintings - his mask was a golden star. Twice the size of his head, with holes for the eyes, nose and mouth. My own had been an eye and nose mask - covered in black glitter - shaped somewhat like a cloud, but with sharp, almost cat-like incisions to peer out of.

"My taste is actually not that daggy," he'd stated, tapping his fingers against his wine glass as he'd noticed my prolonged stare, "I just wanted to attract attention. Though, I do like actual stars. And I recognise you. I've been watching you on and off tonight, and your walk definitely matches that of a particular guy I've spotted a few times at the Black Velvet Inn. Your hair matches too. And your chin structure."

"Well," had come my retort to his tipsy and unfiltered drabble, which had really been quite alluring, "By mentioning the inn, you've blown your identity too. You're pale as hell, and you have a deep British accent. I've come across you a few times as well."

We'd continued our conversation as we'd finished our drinks. Small talk - both nineteen, both on gap years, both Londoners. Though, Phil had soon made the suggestion that we'd instead be better off chatting under the real stars. _I'll blend in more too_ , he'd added.

The sky had catalysed an immediate bond. Not black, like the dull nights in London. Instead, foregrounded by an uncountable amount of diamond-like flecks that glimmered with a sense of ethereality yet permanence. A shared gape at the scene, and then brief contact of our own gazes. His shining pupils had reflected the scene, albeit a little shrunken, and my smile had been enormous.

"I don't know about you," he'd stated, dazed-sounding, "But this is why I chose not to lodge in the heart of Vegas. I'd choose the outskirts, any day."

"I want to get the hell out of London," I'd responded in concurrence, also a little intoxicated and dazed, "After I study, of course. Move somewhere warmer and as void of concrete and streetlights as possible. It's as if big cities want to censor us from this spectacle; turn us into grey-minded machines. I'd almost forgotten what it was like to just take in the stars before I arrived."

And so had commenced a series of interactions. Planned, they were not. However, the area behind the White Rock nightclub did offer one of the best panoramic views in the whole town. And both of us liked our nights out.

The wind would always blow cooly, but we'd be warm. The darkness would filter the clarity of our features, but our thoughts would escape our mouths crisply in the silence. The dry-adapted shrubs would tickle our limbs as we lay flat and discussed our personal lives rather philosophically (and over-emotionally) while drinking in the constellations and scatters of the ever-so-slightly moving, digital-like palette above.

Eventually, more time would be spent without the concealment of the masks. Free of the barriers, we could kiss, and roam, and ravish. The concealment of the darkness was still there though; and the moonlight would only illuminate the best of our features, in an almost cartoon-like manner. The liberation that came with drunkenness also contributed. Really, in a physical sense, we weren't very exposed. Emotionally? The opposite.

I think that's why I could never meet his gaze during the day. I'd pick up my pace if I ever crossed paths with him around the inn. I'd shield my face if I ever spotted him outside a cafe window. Without my cloak of darkness and moonlight face-paint, nor my bubble of intoxication, I did not feel like one with the words I'd shared with him over the accumulating weeks. He'd look a little hurt on the occasions that our gazes did linger. I think that he wanted to talk; progress.

I couldn't. When the sky turned bright and the stars burnt out, my security would dissipate. The dark had scared me back home; but the stars here made me fall in love with it, to the point where it was all that I wanted. When the sky yellowed, and then blued, I'd no longer feel astronomically charged. I'd feel exposed and burnt and dried. I wouldn't look like that of the celestial type. Just crusty and vulnerable and _too_ illuminated. Phil looked different without his celestial cloak and paint too; though not much worse at all. His eyes actually looked more radiant - bluer.

I never watched the sunrise with him. I'd call it a night - or rather, a morning - at the tiniest hint of warm light. It would always sober me up. _Somebody slow it down,_ I'd beg internally each time.

Phil never brought it up. He probably knew better than to do so when there were much larger topics to discuss, such as the fourth dimension; the warping of time; alternate universes; the possibility of relationships transcending death; extensions of the self; incarnations; whether the next life was an upgrade, a loop, or a void anticlimax. Or to jest at the system, and laugh at the materialistic ambition of those around us; extrinsic, extrinsic, extrinsic.

Obviously, I'd known all along that there'd be a final sunrise. We were both only visitors. Both Londoners, too, but that was irrelevant. Because my last glance would come up with the sun, and with that I'd leave, and Phil would be merely a pigment of my memory.

But it came so fast. _'It'_ being this morning. Six months in Vegas, gone with what seemed like a single wind gust; a single flick of the sand. Phil was staying another two. I'd held him closer and closer on each encounter - not just to make up for the lack of daylight contact, but in dreaded anticipation for my departure.

This time, not much had been spoken. Side by side, hand in hand, backs both flat, we'd just thought. I'd picked up at some earlier stage that Phil was insecure, but differently. He needed to be embraced to rid him of his self-consciousness. Unfortunately, proximity and embracement only intensified my own. Unless sheltered by the moon and the stars. That had been the exception; the condition that had enabled our growth. My coldness during the day most likely hindered said growth, in his mind. I felt bad. I was always the complicated one.

"Dan," his voice had eventually cut.

"I'll miss you," I'd blurted, the buzz from my wine encouraging forwardness.

"We live in the same city," he answered, matter of factly rather than in confusion, "We established that six months ago."

"I know."

"But-"

"I'll miss these _nights,_ " I'd rasped, unable to make a longer, unambiguous confession.

"London experiences nighttime too. The whole world does."

"I'll miss _these_ nights," I'd repeated with different emphasis. And more wobble. Our last proper conversation, and I'd been reduced to a few words.

He'd opened his mouth to say more, but I'd burst into hysterical sobs. I'd buried myself into his embrace with my eyes squeezed shut and head dug into his shoulder. Adjusting my posture and grip every few minutes to remember how he _felt._ He'd subtly try to guide my face, so that my gaze could meet his, every time I shifted, but I did not allow it. I was scared that the moonlight would illuminate my tear streaks in an ugly manner; and could feel that my hair was unkempt. I didn't want to him to remember me like that. Eventually I'd given in though, the temptation to drink in his moonshone features too strong. Obviously, he'd returned the gaze. I'd made a chaste comment about last-minute packing and bolted off, even before the first hint of that final sunrise.

But I'd been followed to the airport.

And so I find myself facing a second departure now; torso hidden behind my luggage trolley; Phil facing me from its front. Outside, we are. Surrounded by grey; concrete upon dry sand. That at least is more comforting than concrete upon lush greenery. Cars frantically drive by the entrance, which I stand roughly ten meters from, as travelers enter in rushed, or excited, or both. Returners are easy to distinguish too; they generally have more lethargy in their step. Phil snaps me out of my mental digression.

"I'm not looking forward to my turn."

My eyes focus back onto him as I collect my thoughts. He looks a little scruffy, but in a comforting manner rather than a rundown one. His gaze on mine suddenly tenfolds. I pull the trolley closer to myself.

"Phil. What are you doing here?"

"Consolidating," he responds. The sincerity in his gaze is visible, but I cannot connect myself to it. Only in the dark could that association ever set with me. "Last night awfully resembled a goodbye. But, you see, in two months we'll most likely be living within a ten-mile radius of each other."

"But the White Rock nightclub won't be within that radius." Everything comes out over-simplified and airy. Almost as if I'm making a joke of the whole situation. I hate myself for it.

"Don't be daft," he responds, still not yet angry, at least visibly, "There are nightclubs in London."

"Well, yes, obviously. But there aren't stars."

"Ahh. Well, my cousin's friend runs a club in Trafalgar Square with synthetic stars stuck to the roof." He says it _knowingly._ And that brings me an immense amount of comfort - the fact that he's managed to get through to me. Yet, it won't do.

"There'd still be noise."

"But it'd still be night," spoken still softly.

"But I like solitude."

"You should learn to be more flexible," he says, a little bluntly - though more empathetically than accusingly. That was where he fell short. Of course he didn't _fully_ understand.

"Give me two months, okay?"

"Take as many as you need to. Here's my number," he states, slipping a rectangular slip of paper into my arms. "Have a safe trip."

He pulled me into a hesitant, chaste hug before stalking off. I stand in place and stared at the digits blankly; overwhelmed to the point where I cannot make anything of it. But my mind has time to settle. All the time that it needs. Did Phil _really_ mean that? The sun blazes at its midday peak, burning into my bare skin. My eyes shift down to my luggage. _Right,_ I have to check in.

Check in, then depart.

**Author's Note:**

> Somewhat based off 'Daylight' by Maroon 5.


End file.
